


Belong

by peachycans



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachycans/pseuds/peachycans
Summary: He must be stuck in a lucid dream.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93





	Belong

**Author's Note:**

> For [SocialDeception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception/profile/). Based off of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGQzQrMQEo8/).

_I know (I know)_

_You belong to somebody new_

_But tonight you belong to me_

* * *

It’s dark when he comes around.

The first thing he registers is the pounding ache in his skull. It’s as if someone had placed his head beneath a hydraulic press; the machine set slow enough that he would be able to feel every muscle pop—every bone crack, and splinter, as he is crushed.

The second thing he registers is that this is, in fact, not the case. He has a little trouble with his momentum, but he manages to press his palms against the cold ceramic floor, pushing himself up onto his knees.

His vision is distorted. It takes him a few moments to recall that he wears glasses now. He’s had them ever since… since…

They’re in his pocket. He always puts them in his pocket when he doesn’t need them.

He presses one of his hands against the back of his head, trying to assuage his migraine. The other hand reaches for the back of his jeans, feeling for his glasses. As soon as his fingers brush against the hinge, he plucks them out, and unfolds them.

He can’t see very well, but he can feel a splinter of glass missing in the corner of the left frame, and a crack rippling through the right. He squints, gently placing them on the bridge of his nose.

His surroundings become clear instantaneously. His head throbs in protest.

At first glance, it’s hard to tell where he is. The floor is old, and dirty, with small slivers of grass growing through the decaying grout. There’s a spiral staircase a few yards away from his place of rest. Vines of ivy have weaved themselves along the railings, traveling up to the second-floor balcony.

He tilts his head, his eyes meeting the full moon above. It gazes down upon him through the glass ceiling. 

He can only stare for a few moments before he has to look away. The light only makes his migraine worse.

Placing his palms against the floor once more, he pushes himself onto his feet. As he stands, he feels a bout of dizziness wash over him, and he has to lean against the nearest wall for support. He closes his eyes, colors dancing across his eyelids.

He takes a few short breaths, opening his eyes. His migraine is finally wearing off, replaced instead by a phantom pain reaching down into his right leg.

He lost his leg from the calf down some time ago. In its place, shuttle-locked just below the knee, was his prosthetic replacement.

His eyes flickered to the floor. A dark trail began where he had lay, disappearing into the darkness.

He looks away almost immediately. Instead, he focuses on his surroundings.

He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows what he is _in._

There are small stores all around him; some are dark and lonely, while others have been boarded up with plywood, and sealed shut with metal bars. None of them look like they’ve been used in decades.

The sound of rippling static sends him back onto his knees. He presses his hands against his ears, trying to block out the noise.

It only takes a few seconds for the static to cease, the building to fall back to quiet. He removes his hands just as the old, rotten speakers above crackle and pop, teasing the beginning of a strange melody. A piano begins to play an upbeat tune; one that sounds vaguely familiar, but alien, all at once.

He gets back onto his feet as the oncoming choir tries to soothe him with love, and kind words. Love is the last thing on his mind as he begins to press forward.

He must be stuck in a lucid dream. He needs to breathe slowly, in, and out, in, and out. Instead of pinching his wrist, he places two fingers against it, searching for his pulse. Pinching never worked in the past.

Once he finds it, he latches on. He closes his eyes for a few more moments, breathing in, and breathing out.

In, and out. 

The music is still as loud as ever. It feels as though he hasn’t moved. He stops himself. His fingers brush against his pulse, feeling his heart skip a beat.

In, and out.

He waits, and he waits. The song continues its harmonious melody, egging him on. Encouraging him to stay.

He stands perfectly still, continuing his breathing exercises. His therapist taught him how to do this, both for his awake-self, and his dream-self.

The song comes to an abrupt end. The last few bits of the melody skip, and then die. He lets out one last, long breath, before opening his eyes. He tries to listen for any sounds of life, or movement, but he hears nothing.

It is quiet once more.

As his breath begins to steady, he continues forward. There’s an abandoned store to his right; the owners clearly did not prioritize their inventory when closing down shop. He steps past the threshold, disappearing in between shelves of greeting cards.

He glances at the different signatures, moving from aisle to aisle. Eventually, he finds himself staring down dozens of birthday cards.

It was her birthday next week. His fingers trace the plastic edges of every slot.

She wouldn’t have wanted anything sparkly, or with glitter. She always complained about their relatives giving glitter cards to their boys. They would be vacuuming it up for weeks. They would find it strewn across the carpet, in bedsheets, on their hands.

He rests his fingers against a blue card with a ribbon on the front. In small script, it reads, _“For my wonderful, amazing wife…”_

He swipes at the corners of his eyes, plucking the card from its holder. She had always loved the color blue. It was the color of her mother’s house. The color of the forget-me-nots in their front yard.

The color of _her._

He slides the card back into its slot. He takes another deep breath.

Slowly, he makes his way back onto the main floor. He tugs his cardigan further up his shoulders, tuning back in to his surroundings.

Still, nothing.

He sighs, pressing himself up against the wall. His lip begins to quiver, his hands folding into his sides. He should have kept the card.

He drops his face into his hands, trying with all his might to hold back his tears. His shoulders are shaking, his legs trembling.

The speakers above scratch, and the tune starts again.

He jumps, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. His heart rate picks up; he needs to leave. He has to find a way out.

Not missing a beat, he begins walking down the hall as fast as he can, taking his weak leg into consideration. The music is growing louder, this time. He has to find a way out.

The more he walks, the further he loses himself to the maze of hallways, and stores. His breath hitches as he comes to a stop; a dead end. He retraces his steps, turning into one of the halls he had disregarded earlier. He has to find a way out.

He can hear footsteps following him. Whenever he looks over his shoulder, nothing is there to greet him, but the empty darkness.

He has to find a way out.

A wave of relief begins to wash over him as he turns, a large set of doors greeting him just a few yards away. He runs, throwing all of his weight against the metal handles.

The doors do not move. He feels his anxiety peak; his hands begin to shake, and his legs turn to jelly. His ears begin to ring.

After a few moments, he notices that he is pushing. He has to _pull._ This has already happened many times since he began his recovery; he would push when he needed to pull, and convince himself that he was trapped.

He takes a few quick breaths in an attempt to calm himself down, hooking his fingers over the handles. Gently, he pulls.

Still, nothing happens.

He tugs on the handles again, harder.

Nothing.

The ringing in his ears begins turning into a shriek; was the door locked? Was there a key?

Instead of working through the problem, he begins to pull, then push. Pull, then push.

His momentum becomes panicked. The ringing in his ears, and the sound of metal clanging against glass is all he can hear. He immerses himself so thoroughly in the task, that he does not register the soft sound of footsteps behind him. The gentle clack of polished shoes against ceramic.

It isn’t until two hands brush against his shoulders, does he stop.

He can’t move.

He remains there, as still as a statue, as the hands slide down his arms. They take his hands off of the door, and bring them instead to his middle. They wrap around him, enveloping him in their cruel warmth.

Hot breath tickles his neck. Chapped lips brush the shape of his ear.

“Darling,” the body cooes.

* * *

_My honey I know_

_With the dawn that you will be gone_

_But tonight you belong to me_

_Just to little old me_


End file.
